


Cottonmouth

by ClumsyChicken



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: /millions of pictures of Charles fall out of Arthur's pockets/ "wait this ain't what it looks like—", Awkward Crush, Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 19:18:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21184619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClumsyChicken/pseuds/ClumsyChicken
Summary: Arthur Morgan is an avid amateur photographer. With his camera, ever at his side, he captures sunsets, landscapes, and the occasional dangerous animal… or so Charles thinks.





	Cottonmouth

I knock on the door – three short taps. Cross my arms, listen. Shift my weight to one hip. Then shift it back, lips pressed together.

No response. Not even after the customary dozen seconds it usually takes him to get on his feet. He’s not sleeping either; his snoring would’ve given it away downstairs. Rattles this whole house. If it doesn’t fall apart on its own, that’ll be the death of it. At least it lets me keep tabs on him.

I take a deep breath and push the door open. Nobody home. Now, where might he keep those photographs? Surely not in his satchel. They’d take up far too much space. He’s not impractical. Not on the table either, too obvious – little Jack’s got sticky fingers in more ways than one. The chest? Pulling it open, the scent pours out like a roaring waterfall. Yup. Even before laying eyes on them, it couldn’t be anything other than his clothes. Discarded, somewhat dirty. The corners of my mouth pull up before I can tell them no. Somehow this specific cocktail of horse hair, drink, and the musk of a working man loosens the knot in my stomach. Just a little.

Not on the shelves, not under the pillow. I crouch down and take a look under the bed. Beside the dust and dirt, a little, old suitcase lies pushed up against the wall. Is this too far? Am I peering too close? Probably. Probably.

As I’m about to stand back up, curiosity guides my hands. Still harboring a sliver of hesitation, I slowly, gently, pull the suitcase out. No lock on it. But whatever his secrets, I won’t tell. Trust is a precious thing.

Trust that I might be betraying.

It’s only a snake.

Heart hammering in my chest, I undo the clasps. First I merely peek, letting little streaks of sunlight bathe the contents in golden hues. It’s all photos, newspaper clippings, memories. Some old, some fresh. A lovely shot of some grey wolves, though they aren’t quite acting natural. What in the world did he do to get that?

And there’s the infamous creature. I can’t help but grin. Told him it was a cottonmouth. The little handbook’s fine illustrations leave no room for doubt. But he was close. I’ll have to let him know. It’s hard to tell the difference.

Yet what catches my gaze isn’t the photograph of the contentious reptile. It’s the photo below. My smile vanishes like a startled deer. Staring back at me is my own likeness. I pick it up, careful to not leave any marks. It’s… nice. The photo, more so than my own face. Can’t put my finger on why. It just is. Something about the light? The way it’s framed?

As my gaze slips down, my heart sinks with it. Another one. Still me. Still nice.

I push it aside with my nail. Another. Push it. Another. How many?

My heart beats faster. Photo after photo. Some I remember. In this one, he thought the sunset was handsome. Insisted I didn’t move out of the way. My confusion saturates the pigment. In this one, conveying the scale of the mountain was essential. Though from this perspective, it isn’t clear. I’m too close. In this one, he wanted to capture the flowers while I was still holding them. Snapped the picture so fast, I didn’t even get to ask the question.

Why?

My lips part. All the smiles. Each and every one warmer than sunbeams. The skin around his eyes crinkles, exposing his age, but never contemptuously so. More like a loving brush across his cheek. All the little touches. A hand on the small of my back. A clap on my shoulder, praise for a job well done. All the embraces. Short, but tight. Like a revitalizing drink of ice cold spring water. He doesn’t do that with the others. Not with anyone else. No needling, no sass, no sarcasm. Never.

Heat rises to my cheeks. My mind feels like it’s going to melt and drip out of my nose, boiled alive by my heart. It’s as though a hundred tiny little torch bugs are roaming around in my chest. Fluttering, glowing.

The floorboards creak.

I gasp and tense.

“Aw, hell,” he says. I shoot to my feet, spinning around to look at him. He’s smiling. Sheepishly. Rubbing the back of his neck, he adjusts the fit of his hat. “I know they ain’t exactly gallery quality, but…” he continues, letting the sentence trail off.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as quickly as I can. He waves it off.

“No, it’s alright. Anyone else and I’d throw them out on their ass, though,” he says with just a hint of a drawl to his tone. He sends me another one of those tender looks that seem to light up his entire face.

“I only wanted to see the snake,” I mutter. Brows raised, he steps closer until he’s by my side.

“Oh yeah?”

“I, uh—” I clear my throat. “I checked. Mary-Beth lent me a book on animals.” He raises his chin slightly, studying my face. “It _is_ a cottonmouth.” With a little sigh, he hooks his thumbs in his belt. I swallow hard.

“Damn. Should’ve known. I can’t compete with you when it comes to animal stuff,” he says, shaking his head. A smile sneaks onto my face.

“You were close. The water snake looks very similar,” I say. “Part of the chapter was dedicated to explaining the differences between the two.” At that, he seems to perk up just a little – like a self-conscious peacock who’s received a compliment.

“Ah. Well, maybe next time I just might get it right on the first go.” His smile returns. The torch bugs light up. When he looks down at the suitcase, it turns even more sheepish than the first time around. A crimson shade creeps up his ears, splashing onto his cheekbones. I follow his gaze only to meet my own anew.

“They’re—nice,” I manage. He scoffs. Blinking several times, he wets his lips.

“Maybe once we get out of this damn mess and settle down, I’ll make my fortune photographing bored housewives,” he says and winks at me. Silence falls between us. Just a few seconds. Enough to make my mouth as dry as the plains during the summer.

The moment I’m about to hand it back, he points at the photo in my hand.

“Want to keep it?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe. Barely audible, spoken before my brain could catch up. With a nod, he claps his hand on my shoulder.

“Great. A little memento of our, er, debate.” With that, he sits down onto the bed, scooting the suitcase aside with his boot. He undoes the laces.

An afternoon nap, then. It’ll do him good.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’ll get out of your hair.” I give him a little wave and make for the door.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he says, waving me off. I step out the door, gingerly. Like a housecat afraid of its owner. Close the door behind me.

The breath I’d been holding leaps out of my throat. I stare at the snake. My hands are shaking. Pressing my eyes together, I force back the prickling sensation in the corners of them. My temples are pounding.

I’m silent. Unmoving.

And so is he. Unmistakably.


End file.
